First Class Mutated
by Sandyswrite
Summary: AU-Switched Powers. As Erik struggles with differentiating reality from fantasy, his hunt for Schmidt leads him to a group of mutants: Charles Xavier (a shapeshifter who secretly fears what he is), Raven Darkholme (a lonely girl who can absorb energies), Hank McCoy (an optimistic genius who controls wind), and Alex Summers (a metalbender on the run from the law).
1. Chapter 1

**WARNINGS: Language, Violence, Mentions of Torture (of a child!), Character Death (NOT the character you think)**

**PAIRINGS: one-sided Raven/Hank, otherwise gen**

* * *

**Hey guys,**

**I'm still working on "The Cat," and though I've been procrastinating on "Hawkeye's Mission," I will get that done, too...at some point. :P **

**I've been bitten by the X-Men bug, what can I say? Specifically, I really enjoyed the characterizations of the _First Class_ characters. I thought it would be interesting to see how switching up everybody's powers would affect their psyche/physiology/etc.. **

**While I have this all planned out, I haven't written out all of the chapters yet, so I'm not sure how long it's going to be. And I may change up some stuff in my plan as I write it out (ie- change the pairings, rewrite a scene, etc.), but if that happens I will warn you guys ahead of time. The only thing I know for sure is that there will be no Moira and no CIA-angle; it'll just be the mutants.**

**Hope you guys like this!**

**-Sandy**

* * *

Chapter One

1943

Erik awoke to the feeling of pain in his cheek. Blood was rushing to his head, which was tilted downward at an awkward angle. The rest of his body was sitting up, though he was slumping forward against…some kind of restraints.

Seconds after he returned to consciousness, the voices returned.

_What is so special about this boy?_

_He is finally waking up._

_ Mein Gott…what am I doing here?_

_ Weak Jew. Hit him again._

Erik took a blow to his other cheek, his head reeling upright. Gasping, he blinked rapidly at the blurred figure before him.

_So fragile. Why does Schmidt care about this boy?_

_ Touching this kid is disgusting._

Erik's vision cleared. The figure before him was a young man, his skin as smooth as stone. He had a thick brown moustache and there were tuffs of hair around his ears, but the rest of his head was covered by an odd helmet—a gray helmet that was different from the other SS Officers' headwear. His lips formed a thin line.

Erik tore his gaze away and looked around. He realized he was sitting in a chair, being held upright by officers. The room they were in was actually a stuffy office, dirt seeping through the floorboards.

_Mama?_ The boy thought, but his mental-voice was drowned out by the other voices. The growing chaos in his head made his heart hammer. He gasped and shifted in his seat, only to have gloved fingers claw into his shoulders and arms.

_Disgusting!_

_ Shifty boy. Hold him tighter._

_ Hit the brat again._

Erik flinched, but the hit never came. Of course it never came. The voices weren't real. He was crazy.

"No," the man in front of him said. He pointed at the officer on Erik's left, "you are not crazy. Look."

Erik's face twisted in confusion and doubt. After a moment of hesitation, he did as told and looked to his left. An open-handed palm was inches from his face. When the palm didn't move, Erik's gaze traveled up the officer's arm, the officer's neck, and then to his face; the man was frozen in place.

And the voices were gone.

"You are not crazy, son. You are one hell of a telepath."

A shot of hope and relief twisted through Erik's heart. Almost afraid to believe it, he looked back at the man. "Telepath?" Not _freak_?

The man smiled. "My name is Schmidt. I can help you. And if you let me, I promise, you and your mother will be protected."

Erik's breathing eased, even as he searched Schmidt's face for signs of dishonesty. When he saw none, the boy nodded.

Schmidt's smile widened.

* * *

When the Allied Forces liberated the camp a year later, Erik had been strapped to a table in a dark room. There were so many pins in his head, metal contraptions around his neck—one spotlight blinding him. He was dizzy with exhaustion and hunger.

Reality felt as empty as all of the hallucinations Shaw had him create with his powers. Even as Allied Soldiers freed him from that God-awful table, Erik still didn't believe what he was seeing was real.

They led the boy outside. The day was warm, dust and smoke tainting the air. The front gate had been torn open, and it now laid gnarled on the ground. The rest of the camp was full of trucks, boxes of food, and desperate people tearing into those boxes. The distant buildings outside the camps—the ones the Nazi soldiers would return to—were nothing but black smoke and ash, as were the few trees that had surrounded the buildings.

Erik sat in the dirt, far away from the trampling crowds. He didn't know how to feel or think about this situation—if it was even real—so he just blinked and waited. He didn't bother scratching the grime off his skin.

It could have been hours or seconds later when a bony woman touched his shoulder.

"Are you Erik?" she asked.

He glanced up at her. She was wearing the same white garb as he was, and she had dark hair that reminded him of his mother's. The thought constricted his heart—the first thing he had really felt that day.

She was projecting uncertainty, hope, fear, and grief.

"Yes," he said nervously.

"Son of Edie Lehnsherr?"

"Yes."

She let out a watery breath. "Your mother…she was my friend here and…I am so sorry to tell you this, but she…she's dead."

Ice enveloped Erik's veins. For a moment, he couldn't move—couldn't process her words. Then, before he was fully aware of it, he was delving into her memories…

_The officers are panicking, burning papers, burning down buildings, shooting anyone who gets in their way. Why is this happening? What did we do?_

_ Edie is close by, praying for her family's safety while pressing herself against the rotting wall of our sleeping-room. The shade this small building provides doesn't make her invisible, but I still bury myself against her side and I pray with her—for my own family and for myself. Some of our people join us, but most of them are running away from us—to other hiding spots, I think._

_Her number is called out and she looks up. That's when the shot rings out, and blood sprays out of her head. I scream and jump out of the way, but I can't stop myself from looking back and watching as her lifeless body collapses to the ground._

_ Why did she look up? Why did she have to look up? Why—_

This woman hadn't looked up at the shooter, but the voice who called out his mother's number…it was one of Shaw's men, Erik knew it.

Agony destroyed whatever he had left of his soul. The pain weighed in his blood like a quick-acting toxin, searing into his veins like acid. He screamed, muscles tensing, mind throbbing—

He didn't notice the people around him falling, their brains permanently damaged from his power.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter Two

1953

Charles thought the worst part about puberty would be zits and untimely erections. The blue scales, the dramatic blackening of his hair, and the red eyes…well, that was downright horrifying. His mother was convinced he was dying, so she had doctors poke and prod at him for months; his stepfather and stepbrother were convinced he was contagious, so they kept away from him.

Raven, his adopted sister, was the only who would talk to him.

"Thank you," he said, something he always said when she visited him. He laid in his bed, his body hidden within several layers of clothing. He also wore socks, gloves, and a ski mask. Sweating profusely, he gave his sister a tight smile.

She sighed and grabbed his wrist. "Charles…you don't have to hide from me. It must be a thousand degrees underneath all those sweaters."

He snorted. "A thousand degrees? You should be a weatherman."

"I'm not afraid of you. A little insulted, sure, but not afraid."

He swallowed, his gaze lowering to her hand. "Why?" he whispered.

"Well, you made that weatherman crack when I've been nothing but supportive—"

"You know what I meant."

She let him go and fiddled with her fingers. There was a nervous edge about her now—she was biting her lip, glancing at everything but him, jiggling her leg. When she stood up from his desk chair and backed away, Charles's throat constricted. If he could have spoken in that second, he would have taken back his question, desperate to keep his only friend from rejecting him, too.

"Watch and don't freak out," she said, standing a few feet away from him.

Charles furrowed his brow and sat up. A different kind of fear twisted through his guts, and he found the courage to speak. "Wh—"

"Just watch."

Reluctantly, he closed his mouth.

Raven blew out a long breath, stretching out her left arm while keeping her left palm facing the right. Then she fisted her right hand and punched her palm. A small ripple traveled through her arm.

Charles winced, leaning forward. "Raven—"

"Watch."

He gave her a questioning look, but her own look of determination kept him quiet.

She turned to face the adjacent wall, aiming her right hand at it. A few seconds later, a light ripple traveled through her right arm, coming out of her right hand as a burst of energy that hit the wall. It wasn't a strong hit—it only brushed the dust off the wallpaper—but it was enough to have Charles gaping at his sister in an entirely new light.

Turning back to him, she gave Charles a watery smile and a stiff shrug. "I'm different, too."

For a few seconds, they were both frozen; Charles in shock and Raven in anticipation. Then, before he could stop himself, Charles laughed. Tears soaked into his ski mask, the relief he felt—the acceptance—not being alone anymore…it was the best thing that had ever happened to him.

Raven was also crying and laughing. Approaching him, she pointed at his head. "Take that damn thing off, Charles."

Shakily, he pulled the mask off. He felt even more relief as his skin immediately cooled. He swiped the moisture off his face, only to feel more tears slide down his blue cheeks.

Raven sat next to him. She tussled his hair and made him choke on his laughter. When he turned to look at her, he didn't see any fear or rejection in her expression, just acceptance…just like she had said.

Despite the fact that he was still wearing several jackets and was hot as hell, he hugged her tightly.

* * *

A few weeks later, Charles shapeshifted for the first time. He woke up on the carpet, his cheek pressed against a genetics book, and each one of his limbs was a different shape, size, and color.

"RAVEN!" He scrambled across the floor. He pushed aside all of the books he had surrounded himself with the night before, slipping across the pages as he did so. Though he couldn't seem to gain much purchase on the ground or walls—or on anything—he managed to grab his door and swing it open. "RAVEN!"

God bless her, she was running through the mansion and to his bedroom in a matter of minutes.

"Charles?!"

"Shut the door," he wheezed, scooting back until he hit the wall.

Raven immediately did as told. When she turned back around and crouched in front of him, he got a better look at her; her eyes were blazing with fear and protectiveness; her hair was a tangled mess; and her large pink robe made her appear round and fluffy.

She was an angel.

"What the hell did you do?" she asked.

"I don't know! I don't know!"

"Okay, okay, calm down."

"Calm down?!"

"Yes, calm down. You need to breathe." She took a deep breath, motioning for him to copy her. "Look, freaky stuff like this is going to happen sometimes. That's part of being different."

"This happened to you?"

"Not _this_, no, but…freaky stuff, yes. Just…whatever you did that made you this way, do the opposite."

"I don't know what I did! I was asleep!"

"Okay." She gave him a stern expression. "Calm. Down. We'll figure this out."

He gave her several shaky nods, taking another long and deep breath. Remarkably, he got himself to relax. He relaxed even further when his sister put a hand on his shoulder.

"Good," she said, smiling. "Now, concentrate on your limbs."

He gawked at her.

"Just try it," she said.

Incredulous, he closed his eyes and _concentrated_ on his limbs. It wasn't long before embarrassment warmed his cheeks. He already wanted to argue with Raven about this, but then something in his brain…it just clicked. He realized he was tensing his muscles—or tensing _something_, anyway—so he loosened them.

"See?" Raven said, her voice cracking in relief and awe.

He looked over himself. The sight of his blue scales had his shoulders sagging with relief. Lowering his face into his hands, he allowed himself a moment to absorb all that had happened, including the irony of actually preferring _this_ blue-scaled appearance for once…something that wasn't as definite as he initially thought.

"I can change my appearance," he whispered. His head shot up. "I can fix this."

"Fix what?"

He ran to his closet and tossed aside various items—clothing, mostly—until he came across his yearbook. He searched through it for his picture. When he found it, he kept his gaze glued to it as he slowly walked back to his sister.

"How did I do that?" he murmured to himself. He observed his black-and-white face in the yearbook, obsessing over every little detail. He tensed his muscles consciously, feeling…something else subconsciously tense…

"Whoa," Raven said. "That's awesome."

"What? What?" He looked over himself again. He no longer had scales but skin…gray skin, but skin nevertheless. He rushed to his mirror and stared at a black-and-white version of himself; he laughed. "This is amazing! Do you know what this means?"

"…No."

Grinning like an idiot, he reached out and grabbed her shoulders. "I can accept my scholarship! I can go to Oxford!"

Raven blinked at him, mouth gaping open. "But…you're black and white."

He thought of his skin pigments, his hair color, his eyes…more tensing….

"Oh," she said. "Nevermind."

* * *

**Yes, I altered the "Mystique-look" a little for Charles. I don't know why, but I really like the black-hair and red-eyes for him. *shrugs***


	3. Chapter 3

**This is a bit of a talky-talk chapter, but it is a nice set-up for when Erik meets Charles and Raven.**

**No, I'm sad to say Erik is not in this chapter. He will be in the next one though! :D**

**And thank all of you guys for reviewing, story-alerting, and/or story favoriting. I really appreciate all of that. :)**

Chapter Three

1959

The manor was quiet, save for the occasional creaks and groans the woodwork made. Dust coated the vases, the large paintings, the sculptures, the mahogany tables, the furniture—hell, even the wallpaper seemed dusty. It looked more like an abandoned museum than it did a home.

Raven dropped her bags in the entryway and took off her hat. Without turning around, she kicked the front door close. With so much of her inheritance spent in the last few years, this place was as close to a home as she was going to get; she couldn't afford to go anywhere else. But at least she had the manor to herself, her adoptive mother being dead and her adoptive father being long gone.

Sighing, she placed her hat on the (also dusty) hat rack. That was when the floor rumbled.

"The hell?" She stared at her feet, which absorbed the abrupt motions. She could _feel_ the origin point of this tiny quake; it was in the underground bunker, below the basement.

She hurried to the basement. It used to be a dark, eerie space—only meant to be a passageway between the manor and the bunker—so she was shocked to discover it well-lit, thoroughly cleaned, and full of strange equipment and machinery. For a second, she remained frozen on the bottom step.

"The hell?" she said again. She scanned the area multiple times.

Voices echoed up from the other staircase—the one that lead down to the bunker. Raven turned toward it, curious and dumbfounded.

"…to measure in open space, but it would be safer."

"Yes, but we were experimenting your control over air pressure, and where you are standing based on the sea level is a significant factor—" Charles trotted up the steps. Alongside him was a tall, disheveled young man with dark hair and thick-rimmed glasses.

"Charles?" Raven said.

His head snapped up. Surprise made his blue eyes flash to red, but only for a second. Then a wide grin brightened his face, making him appear more like an eager child than an Oxford-grad. He quickened his pace toward her. "Raven! What a surprise. How long have you been here?"

She forced herself to walk up and hug him—something she had been wanting to do for a long time. "I just got here. What's going on? What have you been doing? And what is with the accent?" She peered over his shoulder and at the other young man, who was awkwardly toeing the ground. She waved a hand at him. "And who is this?"

Charles laughed, the action reverberating warmth, comfort, and delight. Raven's lips quirked up as her brother patted her back.

Releasing her, he stepped back. "My apologies. I'm being rude."

"Your _apologies_?"

"Yes. Don't look at me like that. I'm speaking proper English."

"My God, you've defected, haven't you? Don't tell me you drink tea now."

"I've always enjoyed tea."

"I'm too late then."

He huffed, his brow crinkling with amusement and bafflement. Raven nearly cracked up at the sight, but held her composure and turned back to Charles's nerdy friend.

"Anyway," her brother said, eyeing her, "Raven, I would like to introduce you to my colleague and friend, Dr. Hank McCoy."

"Doctor?" Raven blurted, eyebrows raising. She observed this _Hank_ in an entirely new light, glancing over his lean body more than once.

Hank blushed, but stood erect at her questioning gaze. "Yes," he said.

"Wait, _colleague_?"

"Yes," Charles said. He hugged his sister again, and Raven _oofed_ in surprise. "Oh, I have so much to tell you! If you would have called once in a bloody while—oh, it doesn't matter now." He moved back while keeping a tight grip on her shoulders. His happiness…he seemed to glow with it. "We're not alone. There are others like us!"

She was scared to hope, so she didn't. "What are you talking about?"

"Mutants!"

"…I beg your pardon?"

"People like us. People who are different—gifted. There were others at Oxford, like Hank."

Again, Raven looked Hank over. Her heart hammered and soared at the same time, need and fear and want twisting through her. Tears, much to her embarrassment, were already starting to fill her eyes.

Charles turned to his friend. "Show her, Hank."

Hank held his hands out in front of him. At first, Raven saw nothing, but she thought she could hear a light breeze nearby. As she was trying to understand how that could be possible, Hank aimed his palms at her, and she felt the light breeze hit her in the face. Startled and tickled, she giggled. When the breeze went away, she looked up and saw Hank smiling at her.

"I would have called you," Charles said, "but you were never in one place for very long."

"It's alright, Charles. I understand."

"Do you? That's wonderful because, now that you're here—well, no, I shouldn't ask you this when you just got home—I'm just so excited and—"

"Charles!" She laughed, shaking herself out of her brother's grip. All of this…it was so surreal…she understood Charles's strange new bliss now; she felt it, too. "Just tell me."

He took a deep breath. "Okay, okay. Hank and I…we met at Oxford—he was just a freshman at the time, but he knew so much more than me about our own people."

"Mutants?" she said. She tried to keep the discomfort and distaste from her tone, but by Charles's crestfallen expression, she knew she had failed.

"I didn't care for the term when I first heard it either, but it grows on you. Trust me. And that's not the point." He took another deep breath. "There were others like us, Raven. Not just in gifted abilities, but in rejection, in fear, in loneliness…they need help, just like when we needed help accepting what we were, so—and this is all Hank's idea—" Charles glanced back at his friend, who blushed again. "We are going to start a boarding school for mutants! It's going to teach them how to control their abilities, how to accept themselves, how to be safe, how to be proud and independent—everything we've ever needed ourselves! What do you think? Is this something you would want to…stay for, for a while, at least?"

Raven scanned the basement again, the equipment and the machinery still not making sense. "So…is this Nurse Frankenstein's Office or something? I don't—"

"We will also try to discover what exactly a mutant can do. Think of how easier my life could have been if I knew right away that I could change form. Discovering our potential is part of accepting ourselves."

She bit her lip. Thoughts of her biological mother's car crash—the twisting of metal, the crunching, the powerful impacts…she always wondered if her powers could have saved her mother, like it saved herself.

And then thoughts of the last few years flooded her mind; the superficial exploration of different countries, the meaningless affairs, the search for anything that would distract her from her growing sense of emptiness.

"I'm in," she said.


	4. Chapter 4

**It has been a loooooong time. My apologies. The only excuses I have is busy-ness and distractions (there are a lot of good X-Men AU fics out there! ;P).**

**Anywho, this is an Erik chapter! Yay!**

**Thank you all for your patience, your reviews, your story-favorites, etc.. I hope you guys like this.**

Chapter Four

1961

Erik kept his face placid, even as his brain ached with the thoughts of every New York City citizen. If he didn't concentrate, all of the mental voices in his head would turn into white noise—something he could easily ignore. However, he refused to do that, for if he did, he would lose his focus on the one mind he was currently hunting down.

He entered a small café, the static sound of Italian music grating on his eardrums. Despite this unpleasantness, Erik was still surprised to find the place empty. He could have sworn he had heard several thoughts in this establishment…and laughter. He had heard laughter.

"Can I help you, sir?" the young barista asked, wiping down the counter with eagerness. His accent was thick with multiple influences—Italian, German, and American, of course.

Erik approached the counter and eyed the young man. "Where is your boss?"

"In the back. Is there anything I can help you with?"

"No."

The barista nodded and walked into the back room.

Erik looked over his shoulder. The short tables were toppled over, and the chairs were stacked up against the decaying green walls. The scent of tar was suddenly potent, making his eyes water and his head throb.

Something was off here, but he couldn't—

"Hello?" An older man said, stepping out of the back room and around the front counter. He glanced Erik up and down with a narrowed gaze. "How may I help you?"

Ice encased Erik's torso. The man before him—Julian Stern—was wearing the uniform of an S.S Officer. And despite being at least a decade older than Erik, this man appeared youthful…and happy…loved, fulfilled—full of life and energy; everything a Nazi had no right to be.

"Is everything alright?" Stern asked. His eyes softened. "You look pale."

Rage melted every ounce of coldness in Erik's body, but he managed to keep his posture stiff and motionless. He forced his lips to turn upward in a sinister smile. "Not as pale as you are going to look." He pressed his fingers to his temples, feeling them pulsate as he mentally tore into Stern's mind.

Stern convulsed, hands snapping to his head. "What are you doing?!"

Erik's heart hammered so hard, he thought his limbs were trembling from the strength of it. But he was too worn to be able to tell what was real anymore. He didn't care though. Pushing his fingers against his head, he ripped apart the fragility that was Stern's psyche, making the man scream and bleed from multiple orifices.

"Why won't you fall?" Erik growled, breathless. He stared into the agonized expression of Stern. The expression flashed white, green— "Why won't you die?!"

"Hey!" the young barista called, running out of the back room and crashing against the counter. His eyes were wide. "Hey, watch out, man!"

Confusion tempered Erik's fury for a brief instance before the world jarred out of existence.

Jackhammers roared, horns blared, tires screeched, and Erik was yanked back to the sidewalk by several hands. Gasping, he snapped his head in several directions. His mind was still murky with confusion—and now panic—which affected his vision.

"Hey, man, you okay?"

He forced himself to take a deep breath and focus. Ignoring all of the voices, his recovering eyes swept over his surroundings.

He was standing at the corner of a sidewalk, in front of a crosswalk. The sky was cloudy, casting light shadows over the bustling people and vehicles that crowded the area. A couple of blocks ahead, construction was being done—the scent of tar was indistinguishable. A block behind him, Italian music was playing…in a pizza place he had just walked by.

This was reality. But the café had felt so real.

"Dude, are you okay?"

Erik turned. Standing next to him was a blonde kid, tall and dressed in a leather jacket. The kid's eyes gleamed more with inquisitiveness than concern, though he did have a rather tight grip on Erik's arm.

Erik shook him off, along with a few other _concerned_ people. "Get off me," he said.

"Geez," a woman said, "we were just trying to help. You nearly killed yourself, you know."

Releasing a tight breath, Erik closed his eyes and concentrated…at least, he tried to. His recent hallucination had shaken him more than he cared to admit, and no matter how hard he made his brain pound, he could not get its great gift to work right. Everything was chaotic.

"Damn it." He opened his eyes, jumping when he saw that everyone was crossing the street. Shaking off a familiar fear, he walked across the street as if nothing had happened… as if he hadn't lost focus again. An anxiousness itched beneath his skin, but he made sure to internalize the feeling and use it as an unstable kind of fuel. After a few minutes, his mind was able to home in on Sterns's.

Erik found himself standing in front of a short, worn down apartment building. The bricks that made up its structure were chipped and faded, and most of the windows were cracked. The entire block was in a similar condition—trash littering the streets, pothole-sized cracks in the sidewalks, shady characters hiding in the alleyways.

Erik couldn't help but smile with satisfaction at the sight. This was how a fugitive Nazi should be living.

He entered the building and followed Sterns's thoughts to a room on the second floor. Though he was tempted to kick the door down, he had learned that patience was the best way to approach these kinds of situations. He knocked.

A few moments later, Sterns—wearing sweats and a ratty shirt—opened the door. He blinked at Erik. "Hallo."

Erik returned the German greeting, albeit with more malice. A sharp grin cut across his face. "You don't know what I am, do you?"

Stern furrowed his brow.

Erik kicked Stern in the stomach, forcing the man to collapse on the floor. As he grunted and tried to scramble away, Erik let himself in. "Let me show you." He grabbed Stern by the collar of his shirt and threw him against the wall. Pinning him there with his forearm, he awkwardly rolled up the sleeve of his free arm. Then he showed Stern the tattooed numbers on it.

Stern's eyes widened. "I—"

"You," Erik snarled, "don't get to talk." He tilted his head, making his growing smirk seem all the wider. "But you can go ahead and scream." He telepathically clawed into Sterns's mind.

The man did, in fact, scream.

Erik's waist jutted backward. So focused on his target, he didn't notice this random movement at first. But then his waist jutted back farther and farther. Pulling his attention away from Stern, Erik glanced over himself in confusion. Before he could comprehend what was happening, his waist—by his belt buckle—was yanked to the side, and he fell to his knees. Stern fell to the other side and crawled away.

Erik's eyes snapped to him because, for a second, he thought Stern had done something to him. However, in his peripheral vision, he saw the real culprit standing at the doorway. He turned to him.

It was the blonde kid from the street corner. He had both of his hands out before him, aiming them toward Erik.

For a few seconds, the two stared at one another. Erik was dumbfounded. Sure, he had heard of others having psychic abilities, but since most psychics he had come across turned out to be fakes, he had stopped believing the rumors to be true. But this kid…was he telekinetic? Narrowing his gaze, Erik reached into the kid's mind.

"What are you doing?" the kid—Alex Summers said, his voice wavering. His left foot took a step back.

"Electromagnetism?" Erik whispered. He lowered his hand over his metal belt buckle, the source of what moved him.

Alex swallowed. His arms quivered. "You can read minds? That's your power?" He glanced to the side.

Erik followed his gaze. Stern was laying there, blood coming out of his nose. He was still trying to get away, but he was obviously on the verge of passing out.

Erik, shocked by his new sense of priorities, returned his attention to Alex…this strange kid that was somehow like him. His anger was still there—it was always inside of Erik—but it was weakened by his curiosity.

"I don't want to hurt anybody," Alex said, "but I also don't care if that's what you have to do. I just need your help."

Erik blinked, confused. This was the most absurd and remarkable encounter he had ever had with another person. "My help?"

"You tracked this guy down with your mind, right?"

Erik's brow lowered. "You followed me."

"I need you to help find someone. In return, I'll help you with whatever you want." Alex, once again, looked at Stern. "I'll even help you kill this guy."

Erik stood up. "I don't need your help."

"I can control guns and knives with my mind. No fingerprints. That has to be worth something to a guy like you."

"A guy like me?"

Alex shrugged.

Erik approached Alex at a slow, threatening pace. The kid stood his ground, though he seemed to grow paler with every step Erik took. When they were a couple feet apart, Erik stopped. At this range, he didn't need to focus for Alex's thoughts to flow through him…the kid was bluffing; he had no idea what kind of guy Erik was. Erik said as much.

"A killer," Alex said, defiant despite his fear.

Erik's frown deepened.

"I don't care," the kid said. "I really don't. I just need to—"

"Find your brother."

Alex stiffened. "Yeah. He ran away. He's only—"

"Twelve years old. He's the one who is telekinetic."

"Okay, that's getting annoying."

"You know what else is annoying?" Erik took another step closer, satisfied when Alex lowered his hands and stepped back. "Having some judgmental kid interrupt me from accomplishing a mission he has no understanding of."

"A mission? What are you, a spy?"

Erik resisted the urge to roll his eyes. Turning away, he headed back toward Stern. "Get out of here, kid. I'm busy." His waist was tugged backward again. Erik lowered his head and stared at his buckle. He couldn't help but give an amused huff when he saw that it was being pulled back into his stomach. "I mean it. Don't make me hurt you."

"Don't make me hurt _you_."

Erik snorted, glancing over his shoulder. Alex had his hands aiming toward him again, and he was quivering. "You're not much of a threat." Erik tapped his head for good measure. "And I know you."

Alex sneered before yanking his hands downward.

In response, Erik's waist was pulled downward so quickly that he collapsed to the ground, landing on his chest. In the next instance, the knife strapped around his ankle went flying through the air and toward Alex. He caught its handle.

Erik was torn between feeling outraged and impressed. Standing up, he took off his belt and tossed it aside. "I'm done playing nice."

"I didn't ask you to."

He could make Alex lose consciousness in a second, and Alex knew that, too, given that his brother's abilities were similar. But Erik couldn't bring himself to do it. Before he could fully think it through, Erik got into a fighting stance and silently urged Alex to make the first move.

The kid's eyebrows shot up.

"Well," Erik said, "come on."

Alex narrowed his gaze. Raising the knife, he charged forward.

Erik spun around him and pressed him against the wall—right where he had pinned Stern a few moments ago. Alex struggled, cursing. Erik bent the kid's arm in a painful angle while making sure he didn't lose his grip on the knife. If that knife got out of his hand, Alex could make it fly at Erik.

"What are you doing?!" Alex asked. Embarrassment accented his thoughts. "Just finish it."

"I thought you wanted to prove yourself," Erik said. He couldn't help but be snide, his frustration twisting around his amusement. "I'm disappointed."

Alex struggled some more, growing angrier and more embarrassed. And afraid. His terror was becoming more evident in his body language, as well as in his mind. It made Erik smile. However, before he could comment, he heard police sirens outside the window. Keeping a tight grip on Alex, Erik leaned over and looked out the window. A police car was driving toward their location. He swore when the vehicle parked right outside the apartment building.

"We have to go," Erik said, ripping the knife out of Alex's weakened grip and hurrying over to a now-unconscious Stern.

Alex exhaled heavily. "What are you doing?"

Keeping a tight grip on the knife so Alex wouldn't take it, Erik placed his other hand against Stern's cold, sweaty head. He had to put a lot of focus into Sterns's mind, but after a few seconds, he made the man's heart stop beating.

"Come on," Erik said, hurrying toward the door. "Unless you want to get arrested again."

He strode out of the room, listening as Alex followed him.

"You read minds," Alex snapped. "You couldn't hear someone calling the cops?"

Erik pressed his lips together. He had gotten distracted. Again. He had trained himself to be better than this, but lately…something in his mind was broken. It was an issue he would have to deal with later.

He pushed open the emergency exit door and went downstairs. "Just act calm," he told Alex.

"Why do you care? Are you going to help me?"

Erik shushed him. "When we go outside, don't look at the car. Just look both ways, cross the street, and then walk normally. Understand?"

"Yeah."

They were both quiet as they exited the building and walked several blocks away. Though it was clear no one was chasing them, Erik refused to relax. He kept his mind opened and tried to concentrate harder. No more distractions. No more hallucinations. He couldn't afford to get caught just yet—not with Schmidt still out there somewhere.

"Whatever you're doing," Alex said, quickening his pace so that he was walking beside Erik, "you can use all the help you can get."

Erik ignored him.

"My brother is like you, and even he knows not to blindly walk into busy traffic."

Erik gritted his teeth, remembering the fake café and the fake Stern.

"And I might not be as strong as you," Alex continued, "but I'm also not as insane."

Erik stopped and turned around. There were now in a nicer, busier part of the city, so he couldn't beat Alex. Regardless, it was all he could do not to reach out and strangle him. If Alex noticed this, he didn't show it.

"You could have left me there to get arrested," Alex said. "You didn't. You must be a little interested in my proposal."

"I didn't want you to rat me out," Erik said, keeping his voice low. "For the last time, I will not help you. Leave me alone." He was about to turn, when a devious thought of Alex's penetrated his mind. Erik glared. "If I don't help you, you are going to tell the police about me."

Alex flinched, surprised, but then he nodded.

"Even though that means turning yourself in?"

Again, Alex nodded.

Erik stared this kid down. Again, his emotions were contradicting themselves. All of this was strange and new and…fascinating.

"You're a little bastard," Erik said, the corner of his lip twitching upward.

Alex took out some coins in his pocket. Before Erik could even think to stop him, Alex was making the coins float and spin above his palm. "A useful bastard, you mean."

Erik snapped his hand up and pressed the coins against the kid's palm. "We're in public," he growled. "Don't do that."

"I'm not scared of people."

"It's not about being scared. It's about being smart. Unnoticed." He glanced around. He went still when a nearby person's thoughts were becoming louder and louder—an eager person, moving at a fast pace. She was approaching them.

"Excuse me," a young woman said, panting a little as she jogged up to them.

Erik and Alex turned to her. Alex's discomfort radiated off him, but Erik found himself mesmerized. The more of her mind he read, the more he learned…_Charles, Hank,_ _mutants_…

"My name is Raven," she said, smiling. She looked at Alex. "I couldn't help but notice what you were doing earlier with your change. Do you have a special gift?"

"No," Alex blurted. His body went lax a second later. He jutted his lips out and shook his head. "No, I'm just an average guy."

"Oh," she said, sounding disappointed. "It's okay if you are different. I won't judge."

"Well, I'm normal."

"Alex," Erik said, keeping his eyes on the woman. She gave her his attention and smiled at him. "You're like us, aren't you?"

Raven smirked. "If you mean vague, then yes, I guess so."

Erik mirrored her expression. "You have something significant to show us." He gave Alex a pointed look. "We are both interested."

"That's pretty presumptuous of you. Why do you think that?"

"I know it," Erik said. This Raven—her friends and their equipment—could be very useful to him, especially if he truly was going insane. He gave her a wide smile. "I know it because I am a mutant. We both are."


End file.
